Stray
by RustyPaperclip
Summary: Away from his home, a lost man searches for a new tribe to belong to.
1. Prologue

**Written for the Fallout Big Bang 2013. I was paired with an amazing fanmixer Janie who compiled an awesome album for the fic and did a cover for it. She really has a flair for it. You can find her art/fanmix here: archiveofourown dot org/works/756896 (this link will only be accessible on the day of our posting, 16th April 2013. That's also the day the rest of the chapters will be uploaded.)**

**Setting: Fallout 3 (or rather, pre-Fallout 3)**

**Characters/Pairings: Flak, Shrapnel, Doc Hoff, Brad Danvers, Lana Danvers, very slight Flak/Shrapnel **

**Disclaimer: The Fallout series and all its settings and characters are © Bethesda Softworks. **

**Warnings: ideas of slavery & drug use, language, mentions of cannibalism**

* * *

**Stray  
****Prologue****  
**

That sonuvabitch Harmon Jurley.

You're free to go, Flak. Thanks for your service, Flak. Great job all those years, Flak. Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out, Flak.

"You're going nowhere, you old queen!" Grouse shouts from behind him, voice whiny and thin. Someone pulls the trigger. There's a bang. Flak ducks. The bullet misses him, hitting and bouncing off the signboard. The Boss' son is too fucking eager. Flak takes off again. He rounds a cliff just as another bullet whizzes past him. It disturbs the strands of his hair. Fuck. That was too close. His footsteps slap on the dusty ground. He considers turning around to say 'It's me! Your buddy, Flak.' But they know exactly who he is when they spit out his name while pulling the trigger of their guns, lodging bullet after bullet into the landscape.

They all want to be the one to collar him.

He jumps into the small lake in his path - and almost slips when he's submerged. Underwater, the shouts are muffled. Bullets soar past him through the green, irradiated water. His hair floats behind him. He splashes on through. Half swimming. Half drowning. Flak scrambles up the bank, sputtering. Surges forward. His soaked clothes weigh him down. He stumbles. His legs are screaming at him. Another bullet misses his feet. Ricochets off the ground. Ymir curses. He's closer now. The next bullet hits the rock right next to him. Flak's heart just about leapt out his chest. Sandra the Bitchface shrieks threats at his back. Racing around another cliff, Flak wipes the wet hair from his eyes.

_There. _

A house up ahead. It's shimmering in the sunlight.

Flak speeds up at the sight. The wind whips hair around his ears. Behind him, his chasers do the same. They shout. Pursue him. Dog him. Flak focuses on the distance. His legs are going to give out. He flies across the broken path. Just a few more steps. More yelling behind him. He doesn't stop. He crashes into the house.

He slams the door shut in the same breath as he grabs the nearest chair. He lodges it under the doorknob. Outside, someone yells. Flak grabs a cabinet. Jams it at the door just as something bangs into it. Grouse probably. The fucking dumbass. Flak shoves the side table there too. Flings a coat rack into the pile. Another bang. The articles shake but don't topple. The door doesn't budge. His chasers aren't getting through here -

"Back door!" someone yells.

Shit.

Flak spins away from the door. He dashes through the room. Where the hell is the back door? _The kitchen._ Footsteps echo outside. He bolts. The doorknob rattles. _No. _The door swings open. Too late. He's fucked. He skids, ready to run -

It's not Grouse that enters. A man, a raider, falls inside. Flak slows down. The raider kicks the door shut – and instantly something pierces through it. A long, curved black claw breaks a hole through the wood. _Deathclaw._ Fucking hell. This house is surrounded. The raider leaps up. Clutches his side. He reaches for the fridge by the wall. Flak runs, claiming the other side of the fridge. The raider jumps away from Flak and faces him. In that moment, something passes between them and there's a beat before they both haul the fridge to the door. The fridge drops, settles - just when someone outside yells "Deathclaw!"

The deathclaw growls answer the cries. The gunshots start again. There are roars. Screams. The raider next to him pants. Flak takes a step back and the raider is startled by the motion. He turns to Flak. Their eyes meet.

Then they both pull out their guns. And shove it into the other's face.


	2. Chapter 1

**Stray  
****Chapter 1****  
**

The .32 pistol grazes his chin. Flak tries not to twitch. The pistol in his own grip doesn't waver but his legs are shaking. He feels every single step he's run from Paradise Falls to here, wherever here is.

He lifts his gaze to the other person holding the pistol.

The man.

Raider.

His light armour is constructed of miscellaneous junk. A metal plate in the middle of his chest is strapped in place with thin leather bands and buckles that stretch around his torso. Everything is suspended there by a metal ring around his neck. There's a brace or pad that covers his right shoulder, decorated with spikes. The raider's pants are ripped off at the knees, and his boots are high on his calves. This armour barely protects anything. Not his skin that's caked with dirt; brown where it had cooked under the sun, golden and bronze where the light falls on it. It doesn't hide the wound he has. It's a mess on the left side of his torso, trailing red down his flesh. Behind the bleached hair that covers only one side of his scalp, the man stares at Flak like he's already slicing him open. His harsh breaths disturb the hair that tapers down to his lips.

"Your gun's empty," Flak says, his voice punctuated by the sound of battle outside.

"What d'you know?" the raider snarls, jerking the pistol forward, almost catching Flak on his chin. Flak tries not to flinch.

"Any smart man's gonna shoot the Deathclaws chasing him." And any raider would have already shot him instead of trying to compromise – if they had bullets in their gun. The raider makes a sharp sound in his throat. His scowl deepens. "You saying you're not smart?"

"Fuck you," he growls, promising every bit of violence with his tone. His eyes dart fast from left to right. Wild. Is he searching for a weapon? Typical raider. Flak knows better than to get into a fight with an injured animal.

"I'm empty too," Flak confesses before the raider decides to jump him. The raider stops scanning the room and peers at him from the corner of his eyes. Distrust and suspicion are easy to read. It looks the same on every face. "Listen," Flak starts. The raider continues staring at him. "Seeing as we're stuck here until those monsters go away..." Outside, the screams and howls and roars have died down... sort of. "Think we can have a truce?" Flak proposes. The raider narrows his eyes. He glances at the door, now blocked by the fridge they had both jammed there. His gaze returns to Flak. Flak can recognise the look of submission – no, acquiescence. Slowly, he pulls the gun away from where it's been pressed to the raider's jaw. The raider does the same. He winces as he takes his pistol away from Flak; the action must have pulled at his injury. On his side, the wound spills a new trickle of red.

All of a sudden, the raider sways forward. He glares at Flak straight in the eye. They're a dark, dark green.

"Truce," he rasps. "But I ain't sharin' the scotch."


	3. Chapter 2

**Stray  
Chapter 2**

The place he's holed up in is more like a shack than a house. There are just three rooms: a main room, a kitchen and a bathroom off to the side. Each one has paint peeling off the walls; it's a nondescript colour of puke. When he walks, he sees his own footsteps imprinted in the layer of dust that coats everything. Judging from the empty fridge, the uncluttered kitchen counter and the bare cabinets, this place has most likely been ransacked more than once. Almost everything that's not bolted down has been taken, save for a few empty bottles and syringes. Through the holes in the ceiling, Flak can see the sky above.

It's starting to get cold. If they have to stay here through the night, he'd have to build a fire. Flak pulls his coat around himself. There's a stack of old newspaper in a corner of the main room. Yellowed and brittle. That would work. Probably. Then again, maybe he shouldn't build a fire. The light will attract the Wastes' inhabitants to this shack and it's the last thing he wants. When he peeks through the dirty glass windows, he sees three of the deathclaws still outside. One of them is younger than the others, its body lithe and less muscled. It pecks at the corpse on the ground with its bloodied snout. Flak can't recognise who the red smear on the ground is.

The other crunching footsteps circling the house tells him that there are more than just the three deathclaws that he sees. He thinks the older deathclaws are teaching the younger ones to hunt. Can they smell him through the walls of the house? They probably can smell the raider; him and the rusty tang of his blood.

In the other room, the raider is sitting parked in a corner, holding the syringe of Med-X steady. Flak watches while he sticks the needle into his right arm, burying it in his flesh. Flak sees the moment the drug takes hold of him. The raider raises his chin and turns his face to the ceiling. He opens his eyes. Grunts. He has his lips parted, swollen and pink as he pants. Flak can see his heart beating fast on his pulse point. It makes the metal ring around his neck meet his throat with every breath. _Like a collar._

He'll sell for a lot, this one. This particular one's muscles are hewn by survival. He's strong. Sinewy. And that throat will look good in a proper collar...

That time's over, though. Flak's done with that. That's another life. Not this one anymore.

Flak stands up and walks to the window. The sound of his muffled footsteps alerts the raider and he sits upright. The raider gropes for something around him and his hand closes around the empty Med-x syringe. He lifts it up like he might stab Flak but he pauses when Flak doesn't move. The raider looks up at him with those glazed-over eyes, his pupils large and dilated, bleeding into his irises. Keeping his eyes on the raider, Flak settles on the couch nearby. As soon as his ass touches the threadbare cushions, the raider licks his dry lips. He flings away the empty Med-x syringe and sends it skittering across the floor. He sneers at Flak.

"Told you I ain't sharing," he slurs, the gravelly undertone rubbing Flak just on the tip of his ears. The raider licks his lips again. Flak doesn't see a hint of that scotch he promises he isn't sharing.

"You're still bleeding," Flak reminds him about his open wound. The raider grunts.

"'s what the Med-X is for." Flak nods like he understands. He doesn't. He watches as the raider places his hand on the wound on the left side of his torso. The raider can't reach it properly but he doesn't ask for help. Flak doesn't offer to help him. The wound stays open. The raider closes his eyes again. He has a flush washing up his neck, spreading across his cheeks. His pulse is still beating fast. Flak turns to look out the window. Between the planks that board up the windows in the front room, he tries to spot the deathclaws out there. Yes. They're still there. He sees a massive body sitting on the sand. The snap of bone enters the room from outside. Flak cringes.

The next time Flak looks through the holes in the ceiling, he can see pink tints in the sky as day progresses into night. It's even darker when the sound of eating finally stops and the deathclaws start to skulk away. Their huge bodies block the shafts of moonlight in the kitchen window as they pass. The younger ones' smaller bodies cast shadows on the walls. Flak watches them from the kitchen window until they are merely tiny shapes moving in the darkness. Good riddance.

_Time to get a move on. _

Tightening the straps of his satchel, he enters the main room. He re-ties his hair, letting the ponytail dangle quarterway down his back. It's mostly dry now, done with spreading lakewater into his shirt. Through the cracks in the window, Flak peers out once again into the distance, just to make damn sure that there are no stragglers. He clamps down on the cabinet and is about to drag it away from the door when he sees shapes creeping in the dark. They're not large, burly, deathclaw shapes. They're_ human _shapes. Three faint lights start to flicker with them.

Dammit. They're still chasing him, aren't they? Three lights. At least three people are after him now. Flak takes his hand away from the cabinet. He aborts the thought of leaving through the main door, feeling tension race across his shoulders. He backs up, moving to the kitchen. The bastards are heading here, aren't they? They want him. They're bent on collaring him. Fuck.

In the kitchen, Flak presses his body against the fridge, trying to push it off the door. It starts to budge, but it stays rooted to the spot. Flak takes a step back, then with all his might, he heaves against it. It slips, then topples down, crashing onto the floor. The fridge door swings open, making a final resounding bang on the linoleum. Shit. He doesn't know if his chasers heard the noise. Flak puts his hand on the now revealed doorknob. It's cold. He is about to turn it when he pauses.

Looking over his shoulder into the other room, Flak can make out the raider's prone shape sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall. In the darkness, he can see that the raider's eyes are shut. Is he sleeping? How the fuck can he sleep through all that racket? He'll be fine, won't he? The raider can fight them off, right? He's a raider, after all. He's been through much worse than...

They'll take him won't they? An injured, strung out raider like him, alone and far from his pack, he is an easy target. When Flak's former colleagues reach here, they'll take him. Mark him as premium meat.

Flak doesn't care, though. He'd do the same if their positions were reversed. He pushes on again, holding onto the doorknob.

But...

He's not them anymore. He's not like them. He can't leave this man here to get caught by the slavers. Especially when they'd both... He looks down at the fridge lying forlorn by his feet.

Dammit.

Flak strides back into the house. In front of the raider, he crouches down and reaches for a shoulder. He shakes him. "Hey," he calls. The man grumbles half-formed words and shifts his body. Beside him, there are two empty syringes on the floor. _Sonuvabitch. _Flak shakes the man harder. "Get up."

The man's eyes fly open. It's plain to see that he's hazed up on Med-X. Flak leans back a little as the man eyes his face. Then, he shoves Flak's hand off.

"What?" the raider drawls. He scratches an itch on his arm.

"We gotta go, buddy," Flak replies putting as much stress as he can into his tone, his voice. He keeps an ear out for impending doom. "My friends are heading this way."

"Yeah? So what?" The raider says it like he's picking a fight. "Go with 'em. Leave me alone."

"We're not going anywhere with them." Flak glances at the front door, the furniture still piled up in front of it. It'll take some time for them to get through. He turns back to the raider who stares at him from under the curtain of his hair. "If they find you here, they'll collar you. You don't want that, buddy." At that, the raider squints up at him. A curious gaze roams over his face. His nostrils flare like he's taking a whiff of Flak.

"Huh." The raider licks his lips. "Thought you smelled like a slaver." Then he glances away. He slowly shifts again. He starts to move. _Good. _Flak stands up, waiting for the raider to stand as well. As soon as the raider straightens up, he winces and doubles over. "Motherfucker," he curses, the word bitten off into a growl.

"Come on," Flak orders. His voice is a harsh whisper. There is a shuffle from outside that doesn't belong to either of them. The raider reaches across his chest and under his armour, clasping over his wound. In spite of injecting himself with Med-X, the wound must still be hurting him. Even in the dimness, Flak can see that the gash doesn't look good. "Move," he commands as he heads for the back door, past the fridge lying down on its side looking pathetic. He turns the doorknob and peers outside. The thick smell of coagulated blood hits his face. On the ground, in blood-stained sand, are the remains of a person; scraps of flesh are attached to white bones picked almost clean. He doesn't want to know who this had been. _Might be Sandra the Bitchface._

He hears a low hiss and glances behind to see the raider gritting his teeth. For a moment, Flak's tempted to grab him and steer him out by force but he doesn't. He's seen his fair share of raiders to know that a mere touch might end up with him on the floor with a broken neck. Flak's not going to risk it. He opens the door the rest of the way for him. The raider is grunting in pain with each step. The wound in his side is shiny with blood. The red has trailed down his muscles, seeping into his pants. The raider just glances at the pile of remains like it's nothing. Flak supposes the raider has seen this often enough. His kind enjoys playing like this; Flak has seen the mutilated corpses, the mashed limbs still tied onto dirty, blood-drenched mattresses. He knows the games they get up to in their dens.

"Move now," Flak orders in a whisper, briskly walking ahead.

"Don't fuckin' rush me." The raider spits at the ground. He sways a little when he moves. "Don't. Rush. Me." And then he stumbles. He curses and Flak seizes at the sound, at the pained exhale. Without thinking, he grabs the man's arm –

The raider jerks his hand back, instantly reaching for his pistol. Flak fights the urge to take out his own pistol. _No_ _ammo._ He doesn't know what made him... What the hell was he... This isn't someone he knows. This stranger...

The raider's eyes are twitching as stare at him, his fingers brushing his pistol. Flak has seen this look before. The raider isn't bound around his wrists or ankles but Flak can see the fear masked by rage; it's prevalent in all the meat he's packed in the pen. Flak calms himself down. Because this isn't helping. Because this meat will fight him back. Slowly, Flak holds out a hand. The raider's eyes dart to it. "Come on," Flak says instead, keeping his tone neutral.

The raider's eyes return to his face. They scan him, much like the way his eyes had scanned the empty kitchen hours ago. He pulls his lips back. "Come on," he rasps. He says it to Flak like he's the one who's trying to persuade Flak, as though he was the one who was...

_Fucking raiders. _

Flak takes his arm again and doesn't miss the way the raider stiffens at the touch. Whatever. They both don't like having to do this. Manoeuvring themselves so there won't be any pressure to the wound, and so Flak won't get poked by the spikes on the raider's armour, Flak drives them. "That way...South East," the raider grunts at him, directing them. "Safe place," he adds. They trek in the dark, leaving behind the house, weaving between the trees and passing under the red rocket statue.

"Safe place for you, you mean," Flak says, grunting with effort.

"No one's gonna be there now," the raider replies, heavy breaths interspersing the speech. Flak can't read the emotion in his voice. The raider sags a little more against him. Is he slipping away?

Many steps later, Flak looks over his shoulder towards where the house had been, where he's sure Paradise Falls used to be. He sees nothing but trees.


	4. Chapter 3

**Stray  
****Chapter 3****  
**

'South East' turns out to be a broken down bridge and a stranded camper. As they near the site, Flak sees a pit where a fire had been. There's no fire now. No smoke. Just charred wood and the remains of a meal, a brahmin carcass, partially roasted. What a waste. The raider is right. Whoever was here is now long gone. On his left, the raider is a heavy, warm weight by his side, leaning on him and swaying with each step he takes.

Flak directs them to the camper. Its white body seems to glow in the dark. They both duck their heads to enter it. Inside, there's nothing but a battered old mattress. Flak drops the raider on it as carefully as he can. When the man lands, he exhales a soft, relieved sigh that makes Flak pause. He looks down at the man underneath him. The frown is still there on his face, pulling his brows down, but Flak can't read that gaze. From below, the raider stares up at him. His lips part, like he's about to say something - but no sound escapes. All of a sudden, his eyes widen. The raider freezes. What the hell? Like a crippled radroach, fast and uncontrollable, the raider scoots over to the back wall and hisses something at Flak.

"What?" Flak asks, confused.

"Get down, bleeder." The raider doesn't give him a chance to respond. He yanks Flak down by his wrist. Flak lands in a heap in front of him, already reaching for the pistol in his holster. _No ammo. _The raider barks at him. "Don't fuckin' move." His eyes are glinting in the light. "You're gonna get us killed." He's peering out the open doorway past Flak. What's out there? Flak moves so that he can peer outside too. There's nothing there. From here, he sees the fire pit, the brahmin carcass still on the stakes, and other miscellaneous junk that litter the ground. There's nothi-

Something growls. Flak turns around to face the sound. It's just next to them, through the metal of the camper. Something disturbs the loose gravel on the ground, clicking, like claws on stone. Following the sound as it moves by the camper, Flak can hear deep rumbling. Something lumbers by the window of the camper. Something large. It blocks the light as it passes. Flak sees the creature's shiny black fur. _Yao guai. _

Dammit. Flak takes a sharp inhale. He doesn't move. Letting his eyes track the yao guai's progress, he sees the black mass halt at the entrance. He curses inwardly at the doorless doorway. Fucking door. The yao guai sniffs at the ground. Then it lifts its snout to sniff the steps leading inside the camper.

Can it smell them? It knows they're there doesn't it? It growls again, placing its paw on the camper's first step. Flak holds his breath. There's no way in hell they're going to make out of here alive with almost nothing – no. Not nothing. When Flak reaches for his left boot, the raider grabs his arm. Flak faces him. Piercing eyes order him not to move. Those eyes are clearer now, closer too. Outside, the yao guai whines. Flak looks over his shoulder at it and gets stunned by the sight.

The yao guai stretches up to its full height; it's like a black, furry, impenetrable wall. Raising its head, it pops its jaw open and makes a loud guttural, huffing sound. Is that a battle cry? It drops on all fours again, dust billowing around it - and then it plods away from the camper. It lumbers to the abandoned brahmin carcass that's hanging over the dead fire. It paws at it. Sniffs it. With strength, it swipes at it. The stakes snap in half and the carcass rolls on the ground some metres away. The yao guai proceeds to rip the brahmin apart with its teeth and claws. Fucking hell.

Flak feels the tension drain out of his body. Reminding himself to take a breath, he inhales and stills. He can feel the raider's warm breath rushing across his collarbone, blowing the loose strands of his hair from his face. His tight grip is still around Flak's forearm, fingertips digging into flesh. Facing the raider, Flak sees that he has his eyes shut and he's taking shallow breaths. Drops of sweat dot his forehead. Flak moves away, taking his arm back. It makes the raider's eyes spring open. The dilation in his pupils isn't as bad as it was just now. Flak can tell that the raider is already starting to feel the full pain not fogged down by the Med-X. He leans his head against the wall and just watches Flak with that unreadable, almost curious gaze. Flak hears a low contented animalistic sound from outside. A snuffle. A chomp. A loud gulp.

"You said 'safe place'," Flak accuses, keeping his voice soft so that the beast outside doesn't hear him. The raider curls his upper lip in something that resembles a smile but isn't.

"We ain't dead yet, are we?" The smirk, smile, whatever that splits his face widens. It makes him look halfway human, less of an animal. The raider squints. Rolling his head along the wall, the faint moonlight slides over his neck, his Adam's apple. It slopes along the bleached hair and shines off the patches of scalp where the hair's been shaved off. The raider licks his lips. They're dry. Chapped. "Guais come round at night."

"Sonuvabitch," Flak curses under his breath. The raider makes a noise that means the same thing. "Is it," Flak gestures at the yao guai that's now fingerpainting with the brahmin's innards. "It's not gonna come after us, right?"

"You gotta use your ears more, bleeder," the raider replies in that biting tone. The implication that Flak doesn't use his ears rides just underneath the statement. Flak feels the urge to punch him but he doesn't. Throwing his legs out in front of him, Flak crosses them at the ankles. He taps his toes at the hard shape that's in his left boot, just to check that it's still there.

"Truce stays," he announces. The raider snorts in response, lips holding its sneer, a tip of a sharp canine poking the lower lip. He shuts his eyes and his breathing evens out.

In the quiet, Flak watches the yao guai tear the meat apart, its front paws holding the carcass down. The brahmin watches him back with two pairs of dead eyes.


	5. Chapter 4

**Stray  
****Chapter 4****  
**

Flak wakes up with a jolt.

It's... quiet. He doesn't know what had woken him up.

It's morning. And he's not somewhere he recognises. Yawning, he takes a moment to study his surroundings. He... He's in a camper. Somewhere in the Wastes. Yesterday, he ran from Paradise Falls. Today, he's far from anywhere. The satchel he's carried with him is still on him, strapped to his body. Light spills in from the window of the camper. It's a yellow rectangle on his boots.

The raider isn't here.

He must've left while Flak was sleeping. Somehow, he can't say that he didn't expect that. He yawns -

_Crash!_

Flak jerks up. What the fuck? He rearranges his clothes and dashes out of the camper. Outside, it's chaos that greets him. Slivers of brahmin meat lie scattered around the site. He spots the raider. Shit. He's surrounded by bloatflies. It's the stink of the brahmin. That's what attracts them here. That and the open wound on the raider's side call to them. They want to lay eggs in all that damp softness. The raider curses at them. He brandishes a wooden plank at them but it doesn't hit. Snatching up a piece of broken bone from the remains of the carcass, Flak rushes to him.

He swings at the nearest bloatfly - and misses. Startled by his intrusion, the raider leaps away from him. It takes a moment before Flak sees the recognition in his eyes. It's that look he had when they're trying to keep both deathclaws and slavers out of an abandoned house. The raider moves and they face the bloatflies.

"You took your time, bleeder," the raider grumbles.

"You're the one bleeding, buddy."

The raider huffs a breath. They both duck when a bloatfly projectile soars at them. Recovering fast, the raider stands. He growls when he takes a swing. The board hits the bloatfly. With a shriek, the creature lands on the ground. One wing is battered, its feelers broken. In haste, the raider slams his boot down on it, splashing bloatfly gunk everywhere, cutting off the creature's high-pitched chattering death cry. Without warning, another projectile sails to them. Flak dodges it. He pushes the raider out of the way. The raider stumbles, clutching his side. He winces. Dammit. He doesn't know why he...

Flak raises the bone and swings at the nearest bloatfly, hearing the methodical click-clicking of its wings around him. He misses again. He surges forward and slashes at it with the bone. The jagged end of it catches the bloatfly's carapace. It drags the bloatfly along as Flak completes an arc. The bloatfly drops off, writhing on the ground. Without missing a beat, the raider stomps on it too, crunching its head under his feet. The raider falls back. Their eyes meet. _Two down. One to go._

Flak turns his focus to the last bloatfly. Once again, Flak swings. He misses as the bloatfly twitches away. The bloatfly's abdomen contracts; it's about to shoot. The raider cries out and they both crouch, shoulders bumping. The projectile flies above their heads. Flak straightens up. Bringing his weapon high, he strikes the bloatfly right on its head. The bloatfly falls to the ground and rolls about, frenzied and wild. The raider slams the wood over it, crushing it. The raider lifts the plank. He bangs it down on the bloatfly again. The greenish gunk gets all over his skin. The bloatfly is mostly pulp now. He hits it again. And again. And again.

"It's dead," Flak tells him. The raider's eyes flash at him. And Flak can read anger there. Frustration. What the-

The raider growls. His nostrils flare. Hands extended, the raider's fingers are trembling around the wood. He's going to hit Flak, isn't he? Flak feels like taking a step back but he doesn't. Something prickles in the air. The raider picks up the plank. In some hissy fit, he throws it on the ground; it's a weak throw but Flak doesn't comment. It's not him he's angry at, is he? Stomping past him, wooden plank ignored, he stalks to the brahmin carcass. He kicks it. Then kicks it again. He keeps lashing out, making tortured, frustrated sounds as he mauls the dead animal with his boots. It's unrestrained. Uncontrolled. Flak doesn't drop the piece of bone in his grip. Better to be armed in the presence of a wounded animal.

"Hey," he calls out, taking a step towards the raider. "Cut it out. You're gonna give us away."

"Fuck you," the raider yells back. He spins around to Flak. He's breathing heavily. He takes a step. He falters. Then he grimaces and hunches over. He covers the gash with his palm.

_Leave this bastard here._ That's what his gut tells him. The man's obviously a lot of trouble. He's obviously not well. But Flak's gut also tells him that it's twice that this man has played a part in his survival. And Flak doesn't even know his name.

Flak takes a cautious step to him. The man doesn't move. Flak takes more steps. When he's near enough, the raider's eyes dart to him from under that one-sided curtain of his hair. The raider frowns at him, as he slowly straightens up to his full height; he's not much taller than Flak. His eyes are clearer now. No trace of the fog that had been there the night before. Flak glances downwards and he sees that the red is seeping between the raider's fingers. "You're bleeding," Flak states.

"Yeah, no shit," the raider hisses, voice hoarse. "I ain't blind."

"You oughta patch it up."

"With what? Your goddamn hide?" The raider bites out the words. "Ain't no supplies left. Fuckers took everythin'," he speaks, the pain tinting his voice.

"Who?" Flak asks, watching the way the muscles in the raider's back move in the light.

"Shit. You're really deaf ain't you?" The raider frowns at him. "Fuckers. Took. Everythin'." With that, the raider sits on the ground like it's his living room, like he's right at home among all this junk.

Flak doesn't have supplies too but he's not about to throw a fucking tantrum. Massaging his satchel to feel the objects inside, he knows that he _just_ has enough. He didn't think he'd be run out of Paradise Falls so soon after returning from a mission. He had no time to restock before this trip. Before leaving. He didn't see this coming. His stomach rumbles. He's not had breakfast. He has some food in his bag; he just doesn't know how long it will last him, especially now that he's lost. Especially now that he's in the middle of fucking nowhere with...

The raider looks miserable. It's a stark difference from the way he was just now. He's looking out at nothing, eyes faraway as he picks at a scab on his arm.

Flak takes a step towards him. The movement startles the raider who grabs a fistful of dry grass, hand wound tight and reared, ready to swing at Flak. Flak stands still in spite of the urge to take his pistol out again. _No ammo._ He has met people like this before. _Meat_ like this before. They analyse every fidget and every twitch, categorising, memorising and reading, waiting for the moment to jump. Flak is used to it. The only difference is that this one doesn't have a collar on him. And out here, this one is in his element while Flak is just a sitting naked baby molerat. _Fine. He can do business. _

Flak unzips his bag. Reaching inside, he takes out a roll of bandage. It's all he has to barter with; he doesn't even have a Stimpak. He offers the bandage to the raider. The raider eyes it.

"Come on," Flak coaxes him. He takes another step towards the raider. The raider sneers at him. "Truce, remember?" Flak reminds him. It feels like long time before the raider calms down. When he reaches out for the bandage, Flak closes his hand around it.

"Know which way's Springvale?" he asks, keeping his tone level and neutral, even though the raider growls at him. The sound he makes is akin to a vicious dog trying to warn him that it's just a second away from tearing into flesh.

"Do I look like a map to you?" comes the gruff reply. A map would definitely be useful right now. Flak had one; he lost it when he was being chased. "Why?" the raider asks. And there's curiosity in his tone under the threat of hostility.

"I got a stash," Flak tells him. "It's an accumulation of things, of loot. We'll split it 50-50 when we get there," he promises. The raider frowns.

"The hell's that mean?"

"50-50? It means 50%. We divide the loot in two. You get half. I get half." The raider looks at him in disbelief. His eyes flick over to the bandage that Flak is offering in addition to the 50%. Flak stands his ground, refusing to be affected by the way the raider studies him. It's like he's calculating the number of ways to maim Flak and get the bandage. Usually, those looks come from inside the meat pens back in Paradise Falls. Sometimes, the look comes from the Boss himself. _That sonuvabitch Harmon Jurley. _

"You cuttin' me a deal?" the raider asks, laving his tongue on the underside of his upper lip. "What's the loot?"

"Some stuff." Flak tosses the bandage in the air and catches it. "Mostly guns."

"Yeah?" The raider's eyes sparkle. So, he likes weaponry? Of course, he does. Flak's not surprised. The raider curls his lips back into something resembling a grin. It looks like his face has cracked in half.

The next thing Flak knows, they're walking away from the camper. Together. It's only going to be a short while of this, just until he gets his stash, 50% of it, and then he'll leave the Wastes and not return. The idea of leaving doesn't sit well with him. But he has little other choice right now. With the way things are, there aren't many places he can walk free. Flak looks ahead and follows the raider.

There is a bandage pasted haphazardly on the raider's wound.


	6. Chapter 5

**Stray  
****Chapter 5****  
**

He has no idea which way's North or South. He has no clue which way would lead to somewhere that isn't here. He's not sure where the hell this place is or if that skeleton-like tree is the same one they had passed this morning. Somewhere, some time ago, he had seen a glimpse of a town. They both avoided it. There's not even an attempted conversation about it.

They have, or rather, Paradise Falls has a system here in the Wastes. A slaver network. The boss, Harmon Jurley, plants slavers in certain towns to ensure smooth meat deliveries. There's one slaver parked at Megaton. One at Arefu. Two in Rivet City. Many others in many places. They bide their time, fitting in and assimilating into the culture of the town so that no one will suspect them of being meat packers. So, stepping into towns right now is suicide. Anywhere he'll go, his former colleagues may already be right there waiting for him. He doesn't know if he'll walk right into a Flak-shaped trap, and end up hearing the continuous beep of an explosive slave collar around his neck for the rest of his life. And the raider, well, he's not going to be welcomed into any town looking like a patchwork of mud, spikes and bloatfly innards -

Flak misses a step. He catches himself before he falls, stepping on a twig that snaps in half. The sound makes the raider turn to him, staring at his inability to walk. Flak stares back, caught in the awkward position between falling and standing. The left corner of the man's lips quirks up as though he's amused but it's gone in a flash. He snorts instead before walking ahead. Flak rights himself and follows the retreating back.

When Flak pictures his unemployment, retirement, deflection, whatever, he doesn't picture being chased by his own colleagues, the very same people he might have considered his friends at one time. They had shared drinks and smokes over stories and jokes. They had patched each others' wounds. Were those smiles just for show? Had all that sharing meant nothing? Is a contract more important to them than all that? "It's all business," is what Harmon Jurley would say. The bastard.

Then again, what the hell did he expect? They were slavers for fuck's sake. They're not the poster children for morality out here. And he -

He's yanked down. Flak loses his balance. He grabs the hand that's around his arm and pulls back and he's spun around. Someone has him in a headlock. He heaves backward. They both tumble in the sand. They stop, entangled in each other.

"You gotta stop pullin' that shit, bleeder," the raider rasps in his ear. His bicep pressing on Flak's cheek is hard muscle. "It ain't good for nobody."

"I'd say the same for you, buddy." Flak grits his teeth as the raider releases him. They disentangle. Trying to catch his breath, Flak realises that his hair has gone loose again, the strands tickling his face. Dammit. He searches the ground for the leather band that's supposed to tie it together. "What's that for?" he demands the raider, just as he finds it. The raider doesn't answer. When Flak faces him, he realises that the raider is just watching him re-tie his hair with that damn curious expression on his face again. "What?"

The raider gets on his feet. He beckons Flak to keep up with a short wave of his fingers. His back is hunched and tense as they weave in between the trees and the dead and dry shrubs. Flak follows him, trying to mimic his actions. From behind, Flak can see the full view of the raider's bare back, his muscles shifting as he moves, the slip and slide of bones moving under skin glistening with sweat. The armour he wears is pathetic. It doesn't even hide the whip marks on his back.

Flak knows they're whip marks; he's seen them on meat before. In all his history as a slaver, he's never left marks on anyone. Not whip marks, anyway. Some of the meat, they're whipped so that they stay in line. "Hit them twice at full strength. On the samet spot," Ymir has advised him once. The point is to break the skin so that a mark is left. Ymir had made a show of it by whipping the wall. After all these years, the pale lines are still there, embedded in the wood panelling.

What did this raider do to get those lashes? Flak doubts he'd been enslaved before. On the meat, the marks left behind show powerlessness. Submission. Obedience. 'House-breaking' is what Harmon Jurley calls it. Unlike the marks on the meat, the ones on the raider look more... brutal. Like they're designed to hurt every inch of him. It seems like every slash would have broken skin. The marks don't make him look powerless at all. Or submissive. And definitely not obedient. They just show his endurance, his toughness, his strength. He's damaged but certainly not broken and battered. Not like the usual meat. He'd sell for a lot, this one.

It doesn't matter that his kind buys the most meat. Even his kind won't hesitate to buy one of their own. Flak knows the type. He's been to the Pitt once before. Sometimes, they want champions to fight in the Pitt instead of casualties. They'd take this one in a heartbeat if there's a collar on him. They'd throw him in the ring and promise him freedom for every kill he makes.

It's a challenge to capture a wild one, though. Wild ones buck and keel and push you off. They fight back. An injured one, like this one, is even more dangerous. It's good premium meat.

...But that time's gone. Flak's not a slaver anymore.

The marks are shiny in the light now, shimmering across bronze, freckled skin. Flak follows that back, avoiding the dry, brittle twigs on the ground. The prickly grass is higher here and they are hidden in the shrubs. A few more steps forwards, a herd of molerats appear in front of them. Flak can see them through gaps in the grass. He hears the snuffling sounds they make when they communicate with each other. They don't seem to notice the raider or him. The raider halts. He crouches lower. Holding his hand up behind him, he gestures for Flak to stop too. Flak does, moving himself to stay hidden. In front of him, the raider parts the leaves. Through the gaps, Flak has a clearer view of the molerats. One of them is near to where they are, probably less than a feet away. Without any warning, the raider leaps out of the bushes.

There's a high-pitched molerat cry. The herd scatters. Flak jumps out of the bushes as well.

He sees the raider wrestling with the molerat. His hands are around it, its fat body squirming in his grip. When he lifts it up with effort, its short paws flail in the air. It struggles. Whines. Then it kicks out. The raider gasps and lets it go, dropping it. Free now, the molerat scuttles away. The raider, however, bends over, his forehead almost touching the ground. He clutches his side, where his bandage is. His eyes are scrunched tight. His other hand is clenching around the dirt.

"Shit," he hisses, the pain clear in his voice. When he opens his eyes and finally leans back, he scowls at Flak. "What you lookin' at?" he growls.

"What," Flak enunciates. "the hell are you doing?"

"Gettin' grub. What else?" the raider drawls, baring his teeth. Fucking raiders. Flak crouches down in front of him. Unzipping his bag, he takes out a mutfruit. He offers it to the raider who just stares at the offering.

"There's more where that came from, buddy," he says even though he knows that it's half a lie. The raider stares at the fruit, then at him over the offering. It takes some time before the raider snatches the mutfruit away. When he takes a tentative bite and deems it edible, they continue walking. There is blood on his bandage. Flak isn't sure if the raider notices that the wound has swelled up a little too.

They walk some distance before the raider throws the mutfruit stalk over his shoulder. They pause at an old trailer, long abandoned. It's marooned in the middle of the woods, far away from where the road is. Someone had taken its wheels. When the raider leans on the side of the hood and shuts his eyes, it's an unspoken request for rest. Flak searches the trunk of the vehicle. He finds nothing.

"You lost?" Flak asks him. The sun is high overhead and their shadows are stunted on the ground. He wipes the sweat off his forehead. He doesn't know where the path to Springvale is, but he accuses the raider anyway. "We're straying."

"Fuck you," the raider drawls but there's no venom in the tone. Flak is beginning to think that this is just his nature. This is just the way he speaks. There's no hostility in the glare he levels at Flak either. The raider spits on the ground and he squints out into the distance, the sunlight slanting golden across his face. He shrugs his shoulders, the spiky shoulder pad almost grazing his jaw, and points out to some speck on the horizon. Flak doesn't see what it is he's pointing at. "That's a turf," the raider explains. Flak turns to him. He notices the stress that touches his lips and the deep crease between his brows.

"What?"

"Stronghold." The raider scratches his arm. Flak turns his gaze back to the spot. And he still sees a whole lot of nothing but the sky.

"So, that's your... gang?" Flak asks. The raider drops his hand and snorts.

"No," he answers curtly. He starts walking, glancing back at Flak. The spikes on his shoulder reflect light onto his jawline. Flak follows him and the raider slows his steps. He reads that as a sign to stay close. When he speaks, the raider's voice has lowered. "They see you here, they'll jump you."

"But you're a...," Flak starts and stops, glancing at that spot the raider has pointed out but still doesn't see anything. "Aren't you all... friends?"

"It's fuckin' simple," the raider says. "If you ain't wearin' their colours, you ain't with them. And if you ain't with them, they fuckin' cut your throat." He makes a motion with his hands that's a half-stab, half-slash towards an imaginary person. His hands are precise in the imaginary fight.

It's some minutes of walking later, when they pass the turf. Flak sees a building that looks like it's a sneeze away from total destruction. Only the foundation and a bit of wall are left. There are poles surrounding it. As they get closer, he sees that the poles are actually stakes. There are heads in various states of decomposition stuck on top of those stakes. The raider doesn't look at them. He doesn't seem bothered by the sight but Flak can read the tension in his shoulders. It stays there, tight across his back until they are further away from the turf. Flak can't quite keep the smell of rotting flesh out of his nose.

That night, they've hidden themselves in an old farmstead. They shelter underneath the rafters and start a fire with a match and some dry grass. The smell of salisbury steak fills the air. Flak eats his first meal of the day, observing the raider over the flame. The raider tears into the partially burned steak like it's still alive. Biting, chewing and ripping it apart, he eats it fast, the meat's juices sliding down his chin. Flak takes his time.

"One left," the raider points out when he's done with his share. He's licking his fingers in an obscene way, his tongue lapping over his palm before his mouth closes around his thumb. Taking his eyes away from the sight, Flak puts a forkful of steak in his mouth. He notices that yes, there's one piece of steak left in the pan. "Wanna fight for it, bleeder?"

What the... Fight? Flak stops mid-chew. The raider, done with cleaning his hand is staring at him. With a dark gaze, he seems to be gauging Flak, sizing him up like he's... meat. He's serious, isn't he? Is this what raiders do? Fight for things? Flak swallows his mouthful of steak.

"You can have it," he tells the raider. The raider lifts his chin. He looks at Flak like he's insane.

"Yeah?" he asks. His hand shoots out but hesitates near the pan. Still staring at him, the raider slowly inches out to take the steak. When his shiny fingers close around the steak, the raider makes a grunt that sounds frustrated. For some reason, Flak thinks that the frustration is targeted at him. But the raider still takes the steak from the pan. And while he chomps on the steak, the raider doesn't take his eyes off Flak. By the time Flak is done, the raider's already fast asleep, sprawled on the ground. His lips and hands are dirty with salisbury steak juices.

Hugging himself, Flak looks up through the rafters at the sky and feels insignificant. On the other side of the low fire, the raider scratches his arm in sleep.

Flak doesn't know where they'll sleep tomorrow.


	7. Chapter 6

**Stray  
Chapter 6**

Tonight, it's an abandoned car that houses them.

They've had a long day, wandering around. Drifting. They avoided another town. Flak thinks he might've caught a glimpse of Ymir in that town but he followed the raider and kept his head down. The raider doesn't ask why. For dinner, they share a squirrel that the raider has caught with his bare hands. The way he had... gutted the squirrel... The raider is very skilled at catching dinner but not cooking it. Flak makes sure the meat isn't burned when they roast it over the flame.

That was sunset. Now, the sky has gotten dark and Flak is on watch. Sitting in the driver's side of the car, Flak buries himself in his coat. It's cold out here at night, but blistering hot in the daytime. The vehicle they've sought refuge in is settled among a number of other abandoned cars, almost just like it. Stranded. Grounded. Wheels gone, they're never going to move again. The raider is asleep next to him. Moonlight slides over their thighs through the windshield. Looking out the window at the Wastes, he thinks about how lost in the middle of nowhere he is. Nothing is recognisable here. The only thing that comes close is this man next to him and Flak doesn't even know his name. How long have they been travelling together? Two days? A week?

Flak takes out a cigarette from his packet of six and rolls it between his lips. He strikes a match. The flame glows red, yellow and orange, flickering as his breath disturbs it before he lights the stick between his lips. He throws the spent match out the window. He inhales, exhaling smoke. He watches the sand and grass swaying with a stray breeze. He finds himself tracing shapes the smoke makes in the air. It's a quiet night. Has it always been this quiet?

In Paradise Falls, there's always someone groaning, crying, wailing. Sometimes, there are screams coming from the pens; most of the meat packers know to stay away when that happens. It's the boss; he needs to feed. When morning comes, they don't question why there's one less meat in the pen, why there are bloodstains on the boss' shirt. Those sounds, Flak might have probably gotten used to them. Here, he can't understand that this is the same Wastes he listens to when he lies down at night. It's not what Paradise Falls sounds like at all.

The raider gives a soft snore next to him. The moonlight glows silver on his skin, a pale strip angled on his chest. His neck is bared, and the light traces the tendons on his throat, down to his collarbones. In sleep, the raider's heart rate is slower; there's a flash of a bump on his pulse point with every beat. Flak finishes the cigarette. He smushes its fire out on the dashboard in front of him, burning a hole in old leather. He takes another cigarette out and lights it up. He's about to put the packet back into his pocket when a gruff voice whispers from his left.

"Got another one?" A wash of hot breath brushes his hair and Flak stills. He hasn't noticed that the raider's awake. Flak doesn't look at him when he reopens the packet and sees four sticks left inside. He takes one out and hands it to waiting fingers, dirtier than his own. He closes the packet and stuffs it back into his pocket. As he takes out the box of matches, his cigarette is plucked off his lips.

At once, Flak grabs the hand that's stolen it. Staring back at him are a pair of dark eyes that watch him with intensity. The raider's fingers hold on to his cigarette. Flak watches as he leans close to touch the tip of the unlit cigarette between his lips with Flak's own that he holds between his fingers. There's flickering firelight reflected in his pupils. He doesn't look away. Flak lets go off his wrist when the raider pushes that cigarette back to him. Inhaling once again, he watches as the raider licks his lips. There's a million things he can say that he doesn't want to. Then the raider yawns, mouth so wide it looks unhinged.

"Why's your stash all the way out here?" the raider asks like he doesn't feel the tension in the air. His voice is gravelly. Sleep-roughened and deep. Smoke escapes his mouth as he speaks, the plumes rushing up to the ceiling, floating around his head as they disperse in the air and through the cracks.

"Can't keep it safe where I was," Flak answers some seconds later, not taking his eyes off the raider. "Sons of bitches are grabby." The raider huffs a breath.

"Yeah, no shit," the raider comments. There's some emotion in his eyes as he looks away. His lips turn down at the corners. Flak recalls the 'safe place' that the raider had directed him to when they met. He also recalls the raider's temper tantrum. Recalls him pouting about how some 'fuckers took everything'. Had that place been this raider's pack's campsite?

"You trying to find your pack, buddy?" Flak asks. The raider rolls his head and stares at Flak. He just shrugs. For some time, they sit in silence. Flak is no longer sleepy. He feels weary in his bones but he can't sleep like this. He's pushed to alert and alarm and these buzzes are moving under his skin. No. He's definitely not going to sleep tonight.

Bending down, Flak laces up his boots. He checks that the hard metal bulge is still in the left one, pressing against his ankle. He opens the car door and steps outside into the cool night air. A few moments later, Flak hears the other car door open and the raider appears next to him, adjusting the miserable straps he uses as an armour.

"Car seat not comfy enough?" the raider asks. There is a glint in his eye that's a little like mischief but Flak's not sure. Most of the time, the raider's barking and sneering at everything. The satchel around Flak's waist feels lighter; it's hard to ignore. Flak pulls the coat tighter around his body. "You cold, bleeder?" the raider asks, as though he gives a damn.

"Why? You gonna keep me warm?" The raider's in the middle of strapping on that spiked shoulder pad when he makes a sound that is a mix between a chuckle and a snort. There's a ghost of a smirk on his lips. Flak's hair tickles the nape of his neck. It's gotten loose from the ponytail he's tied it into. He pulls the band off, and re-ties it as they start walking.

Nothing living around. He wonders what the hell this place was before the bombs dropped. There's nothing coming from the speakers sticking out from the ground. Not even static.

As they circle the vehicles, Flak spots something in a half-open trunk of a car. It's a battered, blue rectangle. The moonlight curves around its handle and the rest of its body is bathed in shadow. When he stops in his tracks, the raider takes notice. He stops too, following the path of Flak's vision and almost jogs there. There is no pause when he plunges his hand into the trunk and takes out the suitcase. Grabby sonuvabitch.

Coming nearer, Flak sees that there had been a lock on it, but it's long since been pried off, leaving behind just the metal plates. A rotting piece of rope binds the suitcase shut, winding around its body twice. The raider unties the rope. When it's off, he looks up at Flak.

"So," he starts, caressing the suitcase with his long fingers. "We splittin' this... 50-50?" The way he says it makes Flak think that this is a new concept for him.

"Sure, buddy," Flak replies. There's a quirk of a smile on the raider's lips. He looks pleased. Focusing back on the suitcase, the raider pushes the lid open.


	8. Chapter 7

**Stray  
Chapter 7**

When the suitcase is open, they're hit with a musty scent that's a little like dry grass but isn't. They both peer inside to find out the source of the smell. Flak realises it's the smell of old books. Seven of them. Next to him, the raider makes a frustrated noise between his teeth and flops down on the ground. He deflates. Uninterested now, he leans back against the car's rear bumper and sulks.

Flak dips his hand into the suitcase and takes out a book. He rubs his thumb along its spine, feeling the grooves of words embossed in it. _Duck and Cover!_ He takes out the rest of the books. _Guns and Bullets. Tales of a Junktown Jerky Vendor._ He remembers that the boss had a copy of that one. He places the books next to him as he settles down beside the raider. The raider barely glances at him. Flak opens a book and turns to the first page. The pages crackle. They feel fragile. Smooth. He's not good at appraising books, but he knows that these will fetch a good price to the right person. Maybe they can trade these for caps - if they could just head into a town. Or find someone interested in books. So far, they haven't met anyone as they travelled. He doesn't know if they will.

He picks up _Duck and Cover!_ Flipping the pages, he finds that the book is about historical warfare and the different types of weaponry used. In black and white, soldiers march, saluting at someone outside the frame. They stare at him and he stares back. 'Call to arms' the caption of the photo tells him and he turns the page. He starts to read.

"The fuck are they doin'?" the raider's voice breaks his concentration. Flak turns his head slightly to see the tip of the raider's sharp nose. The raider is leaning close, peering over Flak's shoulder so that he can look at the page Flak is reading. He feels the heat of the raider's body through his clothes. "What's it about?" the raider adds.

"Can't you read, buddy?" Flak asks instead. The raider narrows his eyes at him, annoyance evident in his gaze.

"You can't cut fuckers by readin' at 'em." He glares. Flak shrugs and the action makes their shoulders brush. He ignores the flicker of interest under his skin.

"It's good for business."

"Cuttin'?"

"Reading." Flak returns to the book, to the picture the raider is referring to. It's a photograph of two soldiers leaning against a cannon, talking. He points at the picture. "German soldiers. They're relaxing after cleaning the cannon." The raider nods. Flak leans away a little, giving the raider space to peer at the book if he wants to. At the next flip of the page, the raider's index figure makes an appearance. It points at a photo.

"They shootin' at us?" the raider asks. The photo shows long-range 37 mm towed guns, firing smoke at the sky. All static. Unmoving.

"They're aiming at nothing," Flak replies as he reads the caption. "They're 'testing the artillery'." The raider nods again. He doesn't question Flak. Just frowns down at the black letters of the page. Flak senses that the raider wants to ask more questions. But he doesn't say anything until Flak turns the page.

"What's this?" the raider asks, pointing at another photo in the book. "'s that a claw?" It does resemble a claw. But it's actually a longish, irregular piece of metal, a fragment that's been broken off from something. There are numbers engraved in the piece. Grooves. _Oh._

"That's... me," Flak confesses. "That's what they call me."

"What?"

"Flak," he answers. "That's... a piece of flak." He reads the caption underneath the photo, pointing at each word he says. "It's designed to destroy aircrafts and the people in them. When it's launched, it sends up a cloud of shrapnel that rips, shreds and punctures anything in its way." He looks at the raider. And there's this expression on the raider's face that's a mix between apathy and curiosity. Flak expects him to say that he doesn't give a damn. But the raider peers at the book again. Then he looks back at Flak as though he's trying to compare the flak in the page with real-life, human-shaped Flak. "What about you?" Flak asks him. "You have a name?"

"I..." the raider starts. He leans away. "I don't got one." The raider scratches his arm as he speaks, something regretful in his tone. "Not now I ain't with my pack. You gotta earn it, y'know." Flak doesn't push it. They probably won't take too long to reach Springvale. He probably doesn't need to know this raider's name. They'll separate in no time. Flak starts packing the books back into the suitcase. He shuts the lid and re-binds the rope around it. He lifts it up by its handle and stands.

"Where you takin' that?" the raider asks.

"It's coming with us." The raider frowns.

"What for?"

"Trade." The raider makes an exasperated sound, eyeing the suitcase of books with disdain. "Come on," Flak says. The raider pulls himself up and stretches. They continue their journey. The next time they rest, Flak heats up two cans of pork and beans. He doesn't comment about how the raider's picking beans out while flipping through the books.


	9. Chapter 8

**Stray  
****Chapter 8****  
**

The raider has ploughed through three of the seven books already. At times, he even asks questions. He seems to hate doing it, but he does so regardless, in that biting, barking way he says anything. He asks Flak what some things are, what the hell the book is talking about, why there aren't pictures in this particular book with 'two guys holding a ball' on the cover. He examines the anatomical diagram of the human throat closely, touching the different parts of his neck, before he closes that book and opens up another one. Flak contemplates teaching the raider how to read. He just doesn't know how long it will take.

When he looks up at the scorching sky and squints at the horizon, Flak knows they're getting closer to Springvale with each step. Just a few more days until they'll find the stash, split it and go their separate ways. Flak is trying not to get too attached. He can't do that if he starts teaching the raider to read. Plus, he's supposed to trade the books for supplies; they're running thin on everything. Attachment is... complicated. Risky. And this meat is dangerous.

At times, it feels like it's just the two of them out here in the Wastes. How long has it been? Three days now? A month? Flak wipes the sweat off his brow and then he wipes his hand on the back of his pants before clutching the suitcase handle again. He has his coat stuffed into the suitcase; it's too hot to wear right now. The raider doesn't seem bothered by the intense heat, his skin red in the sunlight. He's not bothered by the elements at all, having grown up cradled by the sands, dead trees and irradiation out here. The only sign of discomfort he shows is when he scratches that bandage on the side of his torso. It's dirtied now. The swell under the bandage hasn't gone down. The raider hasn't made any attempt to take care of it.

In front of him, the raider slows his steps and Flak takes note. The raider tilts his head, just a slight turn that tells Flak he hears something. Flak slows down as well, meeting the raider's eyes over the man's shoulder. They both slink towards the shrubs. Flak hasn't really noticed anything. There are no sounds or smells or changes in the air. Like always, he doesn't know what the hell the raider senses. Might be another squirrel. Might actually be a hostile crew this time, like the Talon mercs they'd seen far in the distance. The raider's back is tense, like he's pricking up his ears, trying to catch some stray sounds. He is wound up and strung tight like a coiled spring. They sit and wait.

A second or two passes before Flak hears a faint rustling coming from their left. The raider trails his fingers in the sand, making abstract patterns on the ground. There's another rustle. Nearer this time. The raider tips his body into the sound. From his motions, from the way he straightens his back and clenches his hands into fists, Flak knows he's going to jump. From the left, a brahmin bellows...

...followed by a cough.

"No," Flak protests. He stands up.

"What-" the raider starts. "What the fuck are you doin'? We're gonna get-"

"We're not taking down caravan merchants," Flak chastises him. He dusts the sand off his knees. The raider stands up too, stepping into Flak's space. His hands reach out like he's going to grab Flak.

"We ain't playin' nice, bleeder." He speaks right into Flak's face, his harsh breaths warm on his skin. "We ain't got shit here to go on."

"There's no way I'm raiding –"

"You gonna tell me you got stan-dards?" He snarls at Flak. "You ain't no better'n me. So, shut the fuck up and let me do this." The raider turns and Flak grasps his arm. The raider rears his other fist back -

"We'll trade with them," Flak interrupts the near-punch. He sees the fist in the corner of his eyes and he knows that if it hits, it'll leave a bruise, maybe even knock him out, but he stands his ground. The raider frowns at him.

"We got nothin' for... _trade_." The raider says 'trade' like it's something filthy in his mouth.

"Yes, we do," Flak argues. The fist shakes. The raider scowls at him. Flak can see he's frustrated. Tired. And hungry. Flak knows. "Just leave it to me." The raider drops his fist and prods Flak's stomach with three of the five fingers on his right hand.

"If nothin' gives, Imma fuck 'em up." 'And you too,' the raider doesn't say. He glares at Flak.

"Well," a smooth, deep voice greets them. "Never thought I'd see you out here." Flak reaches for the gun in his holster and stops. _No ammo. _He faces the voice – and is bowled over by relief.

"Doc Hoff," he greets the merchant. The Good Doctor stands out with the well-tailored suit he wears complete with the striped red tie. His glasses are polished and his full head of dark hair is combed neat. He waves to stop his pack brahmin and caravan guard as he delivers Flak his trademark pinched smile. Next to him, the raider tenses up.

Some time later, they have a fire going and the caravan guard keeps watch while waiting for their steaks to cook. The brahmin meat sizzles on the pans, filling the air with its appetising smell. On the other side of the flame, Doc Hoff is waiting for the water in the kettle to boil. The raider is sulking. He dodges away from the doctor's touch. He makes a fuss about his armour. By the time Flak's done persuading him to strip just two of those puny straps around his torso, the water is boiling. Doc Hoff fills two tin cans with the hot water. In one can, the medical tools are being 'sterilised'. There is a strip of cloth soaking in the other. Doc Hoff talks to him about the Wastes, about how there'll be a caravan headquarters in Canterbury Commons, about his colleague, Wolfgang, who's apparently losing his mind. Just updates about the world they live in.

Flak watches as Doc Hoff gets to work. He pulls off the bandage on the raider's body. From where he sits, Flak can see that the wound looks... bad. Terrible. There's dirt and dried blood crusted around it. When the doctor presses on the swollen flesh, pus oozes out from a corner. How the hell can the raider go on without complaining about this? It must feel uncomfortable as the straps he wears rub against it. The doctor takes out the warm, wet cloth from the tin can. He wipes at the wound, taking dirt, pus and dried blood from the edges. The raider flinches but doesn't make a sound. He must still be in his stubborn mood. Why the hell is he even protesting about getting patched up? He's glaring at the pack brahmin while the pack brahmin chews dry grass at him.

"You're a long way from home," Hoff comments, eyeing Flak behind his glasses.

"Nobody will miss me," Flak replies. "No. Actually, they can't wait to see me again," he corrects himself. He's reminded of how his colleagues hounded him out of Paradise Falls. The dirty names they call him. The loyalty they fling back at him. Flak puts the thoughts out of mind. That place isn't home anymore. It hasn't been home in a long time. Patting the pocket that holds his cigarettes, he feels like lighting one up. He doesn't because Doc Hoff will lecture him about it.

"Word's going around that you're a wanted man on Mr Jurley's VIP list." Well, news travels fast. The doctor dips the cloth into the tin can of now reddish water.

"They've got a collar with my name on it," Flak admits. From across the fire, the raider's eyes flick to him. He holds Flak's gaze.

"I didn't think it was true." Doc Hoff slips the cloth into the tin can and reaches for his scalpel. "What did you do?"

"I quit."

"_Motherfucker_," the raider curses, his eyes scrunched tight. Flak sees that the doctor is neatly cutting away damaged tissue around the wound. Blood flows freely down the naked skin. He sees the raider's knuckles turn white as he grips onto his knees.

"Where'd you pick him up?" the doctor asks, ignoring the pain-filled expletives falling from the raider's lips. That pinched smile is on his face as he continues slicing the tissue away.

"In a house." The raider's gaze falls on Flak again. There's a low rumbling coming from him. His lips are red from his teeth biting down on it. "He was chased by deathclaws." Doc Hoff nods as he drops the scalpel into the tin can again. Taking out a needle now, he stitches the gash up. The raider winces. Doc Hoff covers the wound up with a fresh bandage.

The steak is delicious; it's a piece of heaven after having to eat everything else that's either not fresh, not cooked properly, or not substantial. The raider, as usual, uses both his hands to eat the steak. The juices drip from his fingers down to his forearms, as he tears into the meat, eating it like he's fighting with it. Sitting next to him, the doctor and Flak discuss trade.

From the plethora of crap Flak's carrying right now, Hoff agrees to take the books as payment for the patch-up job and the meal. He's browsing the titles and flipping the pages to gauge their conditions like a pro. In addition, Flak asks Hoff for some Stimpaks, bottled water and food. He doesn't ask for ammo because Doc Hoff has never carried ammo for trade. Agreeing to this exchange, Doc Hoff scoops up all the books. Flak stops him.

"Buddy," Flak calls the raider who has been watching them without a word. He's licking his fingers clean now, having obviously enjoyed the meal. In spite of that, annoyance is written all over his face. Flak gets it, though, even if the raider won't say anything. "Take your pick," Flak tells him, sweeping his hand over the seven books. The raider narrows his eyes in confusion. "We split it 50-50, didn't we?" The confusion fades away. His shoulders relax. He walks around the fire to Flak and the doctor. Stopping beside him, the raider points at 'Duck and Cover!' just like Flak has predicted.

"Trade the rest," the raider says gruffly. He looks less annoyed now – and a little pleased.

Flak picks up 'Duck and Cover!' from the pile and hands it to the raider. "Sorry. Can't give you this one, Doc Hoff. It's his favourite," he explains. The doctor nods, but he takes away a Stimpak and the Med-x. Flak doesn't stop him. He understands. Business is business.

They clean up the site after lunch. Flak knows he should ask the doctor for directions. Are they going the right way to Springvale? Is the raider leading him to his destination? Or somewhere else? When Hoff picks up his doctor's bag, Flak goes to him. "You're tellin' no one you saw me, right?" Flak asks. Hoff smiles his cynical smile.

"The lesser people in collars, the better." Flak glances at the metal ring around the raider's neck.

They separate and go opposite directions.


	10. Chapter 9

**Stray  
****Chapter 9****  
**

"Why'd you quit?" the raider asks him. The question makes Flak pause because... It's the first thing the raider says after Doc Hoff's caravan is a mere speck in the distance. It's the first thing that sounds almost like... the raider gives a damn. The bandage is stark white on his skin. The swelling has subsided. Flak hauls himself up the slope. Little rocks skitter away from under his feet.

"Got sick of it," he answers. The thing is: he didn't really get to tell the boss about his resignation. He wasn't prepared for it. But everyone else was.

When he got back from the pointless scouting mission, he already saw the others there with Harmon Jurley. It should've tipped him off because the boss is picky about his company and wouldn't usually allow this many of them to hang around in his place. When he reported to Harmon Jurley that there was no worthy meat coming from and going to Underworld, the boss praised him for all the years he had worked with them.

_You're free to go, Flak. Thanks for your service, Flak. Great job all those years, Flak. Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out, Flak. _

He gets it now, though. They had already planned to take him. Someone told the boss that he wanted out, giving them ample time to scheme. Fucking bastards.

"What about you?" he asks the raider, cutting off any thoughts dwelling on Paradise Falls. Flak thinks about the raider's lack of a name or a pack.

"I got left behind, bleeder," the raider says but it doesn't answer the question. There is a bitterness in his voice. "It ain't the first time." The raider reaches the first ledge. He crouches, looking down at Flak and waiting for him. Flak pulls himself up the ledge. Panting, he takes a short rest.

"What happens then? You have to find a new pack?" The raider shrugs. He huffs a breath, making the curtain of his hair sway in front of his face.

"I gotta be ini-tia-ted again if I do." He scratches his chin.

"Initiated? What do you have to do?" The raider faces the slope again.

"Bleed." His back presents itself to Flak. The whip marks are long and pale across his skin. How many times has the raider gone through this? Which marks belong to which pack? They all merge on his back. Flak thinks about Paradise Falls and its slavers. He thinks about the collar they want to put on him. He thinks about the metal ring that's around the raider's throat. He focuses on climbing the hill again.

When he reaches the top, he sees a town.

_Springvale_.

The last time he'd been here, the darkness had covered it up and hid its worse side to him. Now, in the bright sunlight, the town looks like it's made of holes, its foundation in smithereens on the ground. It's a skeleton of a town. Still, the sight fills him with relief.

He had stumbled upon the safe probably a year ago when he and Ymir had to round up some meat delivered from Megaton. The meat was the common, snivelling, weak lot. They carried a bag of guns with them that weren't in good condition. Ymir terrorised them with stories of their future of serving under masters and mistresses. He lied to them that their collars were already activated, scaring them about the explosion should they try to escape. Ymir had wanted to fuck them up. Flak didn't. He might've joined in a long, long time ago when he first stepped into the slavery business, just to prove a point, whatever that point was. But as time passed, he derived no pleasure from it. He told Ymir that he'd better keep his hands to himself because Flak wanted the full fee this time. The boss wouldn't give them much for damaged goods.

In that nasal grating way he speaks, Ymir commented that Flak had 'gone soft' but agreed to limit his abuse. Flak volunteered to take watch and he patrolled the area.

It was during his rounds that he spotted the half-buried safe. It was empty, its door open. Flak had no idea what was so special about this safe that he decided then and there that this was it. He wanted out. He was sick of it all. He'd been sick of it for a while. Without much thought, Flak had dumped the bag of guns inside. He shut the door and thought up a simple combination: 0-1-0-4. This was a promise to himself. A promise for something new. A promise for when this all would end.

None of his colleagues had known about it. The only person he might've mentioned it to was Jade, that one time Flak had to check in at Rivet City.

...Was it Jade who had let slip about his intentions to quit? It's Jade, isn't it? He's the one who tipped Harmon Jurley off. They'd been drinking, Jade and him. They talked and joked. And Flak had thought he could share his ideas with a charming smile and pretty green eyes. Flak thought he could share other things too, like his food, his drinks, his smokes, his mattress... He had been wrong. Jade must've sent meat to Paradise Falls bearing a message about Flak's intentions to leave. He had done it before.

"Where's the stuff?" the raider nudges him from his thoughts. Flak makes his way to the house. He sees the blue car first. Then, the playground next to it. He walks around the broken foundation, balancing on rubble and climbing into the house. The debris clatters off as his steps disturb it. He toes away some of the bricks, broken wood and planks and sees the corner of the safe peeking out. Just like he had left it. Bending down, he rubs away the dirt that has caked over it. He feels a thrill in his chest when he sees the door of the safe. This is finally happening. He is one step closer to a new direction. A new life.

"Somethin'... stinks," the raider breaks the silence. For a moment, Flak has forgotten he's there. Flak doesn't look at him, occupied with scraping away the packed dirt and sand. His fingernails are clumped with the debris. As soon as he scrapes the last of the dirt off the door, he turns the dial to spell out his combination. 0-1-0-4. He hears the click when he spins the dial to the last digit. He pulls the door open. Inside, he sees the bag he has placed there a long time ago. It looks exactly like the way he left it. The coarse material feels scratchy on his fingertips as he tries to take it out from this awkward angle.

"Gimme a hand," he calls the raider, still tugging on the bag.

"Sure, bleeder," comes the breathy answer. It's not the raider's voice. Flak starts to turn only to feel a sharp point poking the nape of his neck. He sees a woman, her body covered with the same spiky shit that the raider has. She grins at him, baring yellow teeth.

Behind her, he sees more of her kind. The raider, _his_ raider, stands in the middle of the pack, being patted on his back by the others. His expression doesn't change, eyes unwavering as they stare at Flak. Hardened and cold. The woman turns to the raider and speaks.

"Welcome back, Cissy."


	11. Chapter 10

**Stray  
****Chapter 10**

Flak crashes into the wall. He thinks he hears, he _feels_ something break but he doesn't know for sure. He tries to pull himself up as fast as he can – it's not fast enough. Someone grabs his middle. Hurls him across the floor. He slides, his back hitting the bars with a resounding _Clang! _His back feels like it's on fire. He can't even inhale before they kick him. Pain rips through him. He lets out a howl. He writhes and twists away, curling up in a foetal position to hide his body. They kick at his back instead, striking the tip of a steel toe boot into his ribs and he jerks with each hit. Gasping. Choking. He rolls away. Crawls. Something bitter rises up his throat. He coughs, tasting bile on his tongue. He scrambles to a corner. His head is spinning. Every inch of him is screaming in agony. He looks up at his captors between strands of his now loose hair. The expanse of their skin makes him nervous. He feels naked and exposed even though he is the most clothed. _Schlick._ The sound of a switchblade springing open is unmistakable. The one who wields it stalks to him. Flak tries to merge with the wall behind him. He's cornered in this cell and he has nowhere to run.

A long-fingered hand grabs him, twists around his hair, scraping fingernails across his scalp. They clench down. And with a hard yank it jerks Flak's head back. He can hear his jaw _clack_ at the force. His instincts tell him to struggle but he feels the sharp tip of the blade kiss the edge of his Adam's apple. He stills. Bad, stale meat breath blows over his face when the raider above sniggers at him. As he stares into the raider's pale eyes, Flak can see how _hungry_ this raider is, how excited he is. He's trembling with the anticipation of hurting -

Meat. This is probably what meat feels like. When they're held down and collared and at the mercy of a slaver or a master, _this is what it feels like to be meat_.

The tip of the blade sinks in. Flak gasps as the flesh opens, his warm blood trickling down his neck.

"Don't worry," Bad Breath coos at him. "Not gonna kill you yet. Let's play a little." Bad Breath chuckles, giving Flak's hair a sharp yank. Flak shudders; he's trapped there by the pain, the blade and the rough hand pulling his head back, _keeping his throat bared_. The raider grins. "Scared, just like a little bitch."

"Give 'im space, asshole," a woman's voice interjects. Bad Breath or Asshole growls, but he obeys, taking the blade out of the wound, letting Flak's hair go. Flak hisses at the soreness blooming across his scalp, at the cut on his throat. Bad Breath moves away and the woman sashays to Flak, her wide hips and full chest clamouring for attention. It's the woman who had greeted him with a knife first. Her voice is breathy and raspy, like she's scraped her throat raw from screaming too much. Flak hugs himself. There's something _off_ about her that's worse than Bad Breath's presence. She seems a little more unhinged, a little drunk on power. When she brandishes a pistol in front of him, Flak sees that it's _his_ pistol. The moment she points it at him, he knows that she has reloaded it.

"All your guns are shit." She presses the barrel onto his forehead, the metal cold and unyielding. Flak shivers. His heart is pounding in his chest. "Whatchu gonna do with 'em? You a gun merchant?" Raspy trails the pistol around his face, tracing his cheekbones, rubs his lips. Flak feels his breath hitch. He doesn't dare make a noise. His throat is dry. She smiles at him. "Funny, you don't smell like one, bleeder."

Behind her, the raider pack is making a mess. They are inspecting his guns in the hallway as they crouch on the floor. They've taken Flak's satchel and the suitcase. They took his cigarettes too. Fuckers took everything. "Cissy says you're a slaver," Raspy adds. The name makes his heart stop. He scans his surroundings and finds the raider, _his raider_, leaning against the wall. _Fucking bastard._ Throughout their journey, Flak has shut his eyes at night next to him. He has shared his food and pushed him out of danger. He has even considered teaching him to read. Now, the raider is just looking, staring at Flak with those cold eyes. Unconcerned. Uncaring. Unaffected. Flak doesn't recognise him anymore. He feels sick for ever trusting him.

Then again, what the hell did he expect from his kind? They're not much different, are they, both slavers and raiders? All this attachment - never does any good in the Wastes. Something feels like lead inside him. It's heavy in his chest, this sharp sting of fresh betrayal. Flak leans his head against the wall. He doesn't look away from the prone figure at the doorway. Raspy and Bad Breath smack him around one last time and his vision blurs. There's a fog in his sight, the colours blurring in and out of focus. He hears the metal cell door slide shut. The lock clicks.

When they're gone, he stretches his ankle and feels around for the hard metal in his boot. Flak pulls out the combat knife hidden there. He presses it into his palm and holds it behind his back. He knows who he's going to use the blade on.


	12. Chapter 11

**Stray  
****Chapter 11****  
**

Flak must've dozed off because he wakes up to a repetitive metallic _tap tap tap _in the air. It echoes in his head, throbbing at his temples. When he raises his chin, everything screams at him. There's pain _everywhere_. He can't help the whimper that escapes his lips. There is a wheeze from the bars and Flak sees a raider staring at him. The raider has a sack covering his face. Dark goggles hide his eyes. But Flak can hear the way he breathes behind the mask. That wheezing... It sounds... excited. Like this raider is hungry too, imagining all the different ways he's going to play with Flak. Thinking of all the ways he's going to rip Flak apart with that painful-looking meathook he's tapping on the bars.

This is what meat feels like when being observed in the slave pens. Flak doesn't dare move. After a few more minutes of being observed, Facesack walks away. He shuffles down the hall, scraping his meathook against the wall, and exits through a pair of double doors to the right of the corridor. Faintly, Flak remembers being dragged through those same doors. That must lead to the entrance.

Flak stirs, scanning his surroundings. He inhales the fetid smell of the school. It smells more like a meat factory here. In the cell with him is a banner that has 'Springvale School' printed on it. He has no idea why a school would have cells like these. There's blood spattered on most of the surfaces, across lockers and in pools on the floor. He also sees the school motto on the wall above all the lockers, talking about honour and compassion; Flak sees none of those traits in the raiders. All he sees is the human-sized birdcage in the other corner far across the hall. A skeleton stares at him from inside it. How long will it be before he ends up like that?

Flak slides his thumb on the hilt of the combat knife he holds behind him. It's slim but he knows how deadly it can be when struck at the right place, at the right time. It's managed to kill someone before. It's managed to kill a Supermutant before. Flak looks around the cell again. There's nothing that can help him pick the lock. Not the bones that litter the corner. Not the teddybear. Not the burned books. He kneels up and feels the sting that catches at his chest as he moves. He's not broken anything as far as he can tell but he's not in very good shape. With trembling fingers, he traces the keyhole. It's rusted. There's nothing he can do about it. Dammit.

The door nearby creaks open. Flak watches a shaft of light appear as the door opens wider. Is it time? Have they come to play with him now? Fuck. He scoots back to his original position. He thinks about feigning sleep. He squints his eyes and lowers his head, letting his hair cascade over his face. With his reduced vision, he focuses on the sounds of footsteps that make their way to his cell. A rush of energy surges through him.

He knows exactly who his visitor is. He recognises those footsteps. His fingers close around the hilt of the blade behind him. He has to wait. He has to be close enough. He has to make this move count. Keys rattle. Jangle. He tightens his grip on the blade. A few more seconds now. He hears the lock click. The cell door opens -

Then something heavy drops into his lap. Flak lurches with the sudden weight. Gasps at the pain that shoots through him.

"Shut up and move."

Flak jerks his head up. It's the raider. _His raider._

"What the..." He sees the suitcase on his lap. It's heavier now. How...? He faces the raider who frowns at him. Looms over him. Flak grasps the blade tighter. Shifts himself back to the wall. "You-"

"You wanna live, don'cha?" the raider asks through gritted teeth. Eyes wild. Shoulders tense. He cocks his head, listening out for any danger. He turns back to Flak. "We gotta go." He holds out his hand and Flak stares at it. It's steady. Dirt-encrusted. Bloodstained. Is this... But why would he- "Flak," he calls. And his own name in the man's mouth seizes him. Flak stares up at the raider. He is just watching, waiting for Flak. There is no hostility in his gaze. No hunger like the others of his kind have. Just plain urgency. "Come on."

Flak shoves the blade into his belt behind him. He takes that offered hand. It's a strong grip around his. He wants to protest because he doesn't want to trust. But this hope flutters around inside him. He's helpless. He can't resist it right now. The raider pulls him up. Flak groans at the pain that racks through his body. He swallows his moans as he lifts the suitcase too. The raider gives him a look, a very quick once-over, before he's already slinking away, letting Flak go. He's telling Flak to follow without saying a word. Flak does follow. Every step he takes _hurts._

They make their way to the double doors. When the raider reaches it, he backs away. He spins around and rushes Flak into the wall between the door and the first locker.

"What-" Flak starts and stops when the raides shushes him. He pins Flak to the wall. All of a sudden, the door swings open, effectively trapping the both of them in the small triangular space. The raider's eyes are bright and wide in front of him, but he isn't looking at Flak. He is looking at the door, head tilted in concentration. They both hear shuffling. The sound of someone walking by, sniffing.

"Who's out there?" whoever it is asks with a high-pitched wheezy voice. Something scrapes the door. Something sharp. _Meathook?_ It scratches the wall, accompanying the footsteps.

If the man walks down the corridor, he'll see that the cell is open. He'll see that Flak is gone and he'll sound the alarm. And Flak will be found out. _They'll be found out. _The footsteps stop a few metres away. Flak slows his breathing. His heart is hammering in his chest. The raider's eyes dart everywhere. It feels like years until the man huffs a breath and the scraping starts again. "Huh. Hearing those damn noises again." The footsteps pass their hiding spot. Then, the door moves away from them as it shuts, freeing them. They wait in the silence. Catch their breath.

Without looking at him, the raider moves. He trails his fingers along the wall as he sneaks. He grabs the door handle and pauses. Facing Flak, he puts his finger over his lips, telling him to 'shut the fuck up' in so little words. The raider turns the handle and in a moment, he's gone.

A startled yelp follows his disappearance. Flak rushes out - and stops at the scene. The two raiders are fighting. He sees both of them locked on each other. Hands tight on each other. Flak doesn't know where the meathook is. He can't see it anywhere. But he spots the main door. _Freedom. _He runs to it. _Crash!_ He stops. Turns. His raider is slammed into some schooldesks in the corner of the room. A long red line marks across his chest. It cuts the strap that holds his spiky shoulder pad. Shit. In front of him, Facesack is twirling the bloodstained meathook around his arm. With a wheezy, excited laugh, Facesack stalks to the raider.

Flak drops the suitcase. His eyes dart around the room. There's _nothing_. What the hell can he -

He grabs the book on the floor. A dictionary. Raising it behind him, he hurls it at Facesack. It hits Facesack right in the head. Facesack grunts and staggers, clutching his head. Flak yanks the combat knife from his belt. He's too far to stab Facesack from here. He slides the knife across the floor to his raider. The man snatches it off the ground. He stands up and plugs his fist into Facesack's stomach. Facesack doubles over and drops the meathook. It lands with a tinkle on the floor. His raider lifts his arm. Jams the knife into the face sack. Precise. Almost graceful. Terrifying. For a moment, both raiders are suspended in animation. Then, his raider wrenches the blade out and Facesack's limp body falls to the floor. Flak can see the red starting to soak the front of the face sack.

Over the dead body, their eyes meet. He thinks he should say something but somewhere, someone yells out. Someone has discovered that Flak is missing from his cell. They hear running footsteps. Flak picks up the suitcase. The raider dashes to him. Together, they burst out the door and into the night.


	13. Chapter 11point5

**Stray  
Chapter 11.5 **

He doesn't know if anyone's followed them. But he can't hear past the frantic beats of his heart. When they stop near Megaton, Flak is struggling for breath. His lungs are going to burst. He is in pain. Everything _hurts_. Dropping on all fours, the suitcase bangs on the ground. Flak coughs, tasting bile at the back of his throat. He retches. It tastes horrible as he vomits. It _feels_ worse as it comes out in strings from his nose. He keeps retching until he can't puke anymore, heaving just huge, empty breaths. There are ghosts of fingertips on his back that feels like comfort. When he's done, his throat is parched and his head feels clearer. He's aware that he has vomit in his hair. He crawls away from the sick, shaking. Flak moves until he feels something stable behind him.

"Fuck," he curses as he leans against the rock. He's shivering. It's cold. He lost his coat.

"Fuck," the raider echoes. "...fuck." He settles next to Flak against the rock, lending him some warmth. "You didn't..." he speaks through panting for air. "You didn't say you got this." He holds out the bloodied knife in his hand. _Facesack's blood._ Flak stares at it and feels a strong ache inside his chest. Just moments ago, he had wanted to use it on the raider, hadn't he? If he had done that...

"Sorry," Flak says. "I just..." his voice trails off. "You can keep it." The raider faces him. In the dark, Flak can just make out the gaze he gives Flak, the way he's frowning and the empty space where his spikes that decorate his shoulder used to be. The raider can't go back to his pack now, can he? Why did he even... Why did he... "So, Cissy, huh?" Flak asks instead of the other million and one questions he should be asking.

"Don't call me that." The raider elbows Flak. It's tired. Intimate. "It's... long for Cise. And it ain't my name no more." He leans his head back on the rock like Flak. Ahead, the bright lights of Megaton blink at them, flaunting warmth and shelter. The view of the town makes Flak feel a pitch in his stomach. He's so tired of this crap. He wants to sleep on a mattress. Eat proper food that isn't charred remains of dead meat. Clean himself. But they both can't go there. A raider. A slaver. They can't really go anywhere, can they? No one will accept their kind. Strays or not. They are both stranded here. They're both lost. There's nothing that connects them anywhere.

"What are you going to do now?" he asks the raider; but he can't even answer that question for himself. The raider shrugs and the motion brushes against Flak's shoulder. He tips his chin up to the sky but he doesn't answer. Just breathes next to him. "Come on," Flak says, slowly pushing himself up. He doesn't have to wait to feel the raider walking by his side.


	14. Chapter 12

**Stray  
****Chapter 12****  
**

The scenery merges into _different_ now. Instead of trees and grass, buildings and concrete flank them on each side of the road, sunset painting orange onto the ruins. For a while, they walk without talking, the raider falling behind. He's used to open skies and barren lands. Not these tight spaces. They are new to him. He follows Flak and stare into shop windows and empty houses.

They trek off the sand onto broken roads, stopping for a proper meal at Wilhem's Wharf. Flak has eaten here before, a long time ago. He can't remember when. Overlooking the river, the restaurant often sees travellers. Mama Sparkles doesn't question the raider or Flak, just assures them that she's cooked the Lurks well. While wolfing down Mirelurk stew, they trade an assault rifle for the meal, two sets of clothes and more bottled water. Flak opens the suitcase.

It's fuller now. Heavier. The raider had dumped all of Flak's stash inside it, Flak's satchel, and some _other_ things Flak assumes belong to the raider. There are more cigarettes. Some ammo. His – no. _The_ combat knife. _And a bottle of scotch. _Flak doesn't question it, just packs the clothes inside. Then he binds it with the rotting length of rope. It holds. They barely rest before they're off again, trying to cover more ground.

They're heading to Rivet City.

He doesn't know if it's vengeance that brings him on this road to the city. It's not that he wants to make a dent in the slaver empire. It's not that he wants to betray them like they did to him. But he wants to _do something_. No. All he wants is to fight back – just like the raider fought back.

Looking down at his reflection in the water, Flak lets the clump of his cut hair go. They drop, the dark brown strands floating away as they are carried by the currents. Some of them drift to the boat that's tied to the pier, getting stranded on it as well. The boat had sunk a long time ago, sand filling up its bottom and scratching away the logo that's painted on its side. _Pirate Pely. _It's the name of the shack behind them. According to the sign on its entrance, when the shack was in operation, it had sold bait for fishing. Now, it's a husk of a place.

Flak reaches up to measure out another clump of hair to cut. Next to his reflection, the raider's own flips a page of the book in his lap. He doesn't look at Flak, doesn't say a word. There is a bandage over the meathook cut on his chest, pasted haphazardly again. The raider has been quieter after their ordeal. Sometimes, Flak sees a darkness in his gaze as he stares far into the distance. But there is a calmness there too that Flak can't quite understand. He seems... tamed. Flak doesn't know what tomorrow will bring. He doesn't know where they'll end up. Doesn't know if they'll end their truce tomorrow and go their separate ways. He doesn't know what this means.

Another clump of hair floats along the water. Flak looks like a mess now that he's already sheared most of the hair off his scalp. There are sections of dark stubble, sections of long strands of hair and Flak can't reach the back of his head. He stretches his arm, feeling his way to the nape of his neck. His back is still in pain. When the raider puts the book down next to Flak's discarded shirt, Flak puts his hand down.

The raider takes the combat knife from him and pushes himself up to his knees. He runs his fingers through what remains of Flak's hair. The touch is rough but it's nothing like the way Bad Breath had handled it. Collecting a handful of hair, the raider folds it over the blade. He yanks the knife. It slices the hair. The raider lets the cut hair slip down his palm and into the water before he continues cutting. He works in silence. He's used to this; Flak knows. He must've done this for his packmates. They must've done the same for him. Flak remembers snipping Grouse's hair once. He remembers doing this for some meat – some _people_ too behind the pens. It's... It _was_... business.

For a while, all he hears is their breaths in the night, the _skritch skritch_ as the blade shaves the hair off his scalp. It skims near his skin but doesn't cut him. When it's done, the raider places the combat knife next to the book. He trails his fingers over the naked skin. He flattens his palm on Flak's nape, pressing on the contours of his skull. He slides his hand over Flak's scalp, spreading warmth everywhere he touches. Probably to check if he's left out any parts. Flak shudders. They don't mention it. When Flak brushes the cut hair off his shoulders, the raider moves away but stays somewhere behind him. He can still feel the warmth he radiates. Some of the strands refuse to get off Flak's skin. That's it. He needs a bath.

Facing out towards the water, Flak unwinds his belt and puts it on the shirt beside him. He takes off his trousers. They feel looser now. Has he lost muscle already? There is a shuffle behind him and he glances over his shoulder to see the raider staring at him. He can't read what he says in the gaze but he can see the way his eyes move down his back. His back is tainted now, he knows; there are no whip marks but there are bruises that the raider pack has left on him. He knows that the bruises are blooming purple and black. Flak turns to face him, but the raider stands. He bends down and yanks his pants off. Flak catches a flash of his ass before he leaps naked into the water. The splash sprays water onto him. The water feels cool on his skin.

Manoeuvring himself so that his legs dangle off the dock, Flak sees his dark reflection in the water surface. Naked. Bald. Bare. Bruised. Somehow, it doesn't make him look weak. Or submissive. Or obedient. Or powerless. With a deep breath, Flak slips off the ledge. Immediately, he's submerged, covered by bluish, inky water. The loose gravel shifts between his toes as they sink into the bed. The water is tingly on his skin. Irradiated. When he raises his head out of the water, he feels cool all over. Wet. Fresh. Energised. Flak starts scrubbing himself. He works his fingernails over his arms. His legs. His face. His naked scalp. He feels the aches pulling on him whenever he moves.

He does a thorough job of getting himself clean and when he's done, he leans back, floating on the water surface, looking out at the sky overhead as it watches him bathe. He lets himself be submerged again before he stands up to wash his face one more time. There is a splash and he sees the raider stand up in the water. He can't help the way his eyes trace the glistening skin, wet with water running down in rivulets, dipping into the muscles hewn over his abdomen and sliding down his thighs. His hair is a mess and it's darker when it's wet. The bandages on his body are drenched.

Moving slowly, Flak climbs back onto the pier to get the medical supplies from their suitcase. He's about to call out to the raider when the man hauls himself up on the dock. He flops down next to Flak. He watches the raider's chest rise and fall with each breath. He sees the faint trail of matted hair from his chest down to his navel. The raider's not self-conscious at all. There is no embarrassment, no shame as he puts himself on display, exposing himself to the sky above. Flak takes his eyes away from the breathing, living, _beautiful_ sight and returns to the task at hand.

"Move," he orders. "I'll patch you up." The raider lifts his head at the command. "Come on," Flak pushes. The raider stares at him again. Then, he does move. With fluid grace, he re-arranges himself and twists his body to give Flak access to the drenched bandages. The raider doesn't take his eyes off Flak, gaze following him as Flak settles next to him and puts his fingertips on the bandage. Flak peels it off his skin.

Damn. That's some wound. It's jagged as it moves from thick to thin. He wonders what Facesack was thinking when he slashes at the raider with the meathook? Was he in a rage? Did he want to maim? Kill? Weren't they packmates once? Friends? Brothers-in-arms? Flak touches the open wound. It's no longer bleeding but the irradiated water has seeped into it. He takes out a dry piece of cotton from the doctor's bag and starts wiping the moisture off. The surrounding skin is red but not swollen. Flak unrolls the bandage over the now clean wound.

On his side, the deathclaw scratch has mostly healed; Flak had taken out the stitches, leaving behind a grooved scar. On the map of the raider's skin, it's the only scar that looks like it had been given care. Flak lets his fingerprints press on a little more, just to see how much the raider lets him get away with it. The raider doesn't say anything. Throughout the session, the raider doesn't make a sound. He doesn't thank Flak for patching him up. Flak doesn't expect it. Flak doesn't thank him for helping with his hair. They both sit on the dock and let the breeze dry their skin.

"They ain't gonna let us in," the raider voices his thoughts after silence weighs down on them.

"That's why we got the clothes, buddy."


	15. Chapter 13

**Stray  
****Chapter 13****  
**

"Don't say anything," he warns the raider who glares at him. The raider is annoyed at everything right now. As he clenches and unclenches his fingers around the handle of the suitcase, the raider adjusts his buttons, his belt and the cuffs of his shirt. There is no trace of the Wastes that he has rolled around in all his life. No dirt on his cheeks. No bloodstains. No sheen of sweat over his brow. He doesn't smell much like a raider anymore. He's _clean_. And it suits him too, just like how the sand and dust had suited him when they were in the Wastes. The red tint of the shirt somehow even complements the discomfort he exudes. The raider pulls at his collar and grumbles.

"How the fuck do you breathe in this shit?" Flak doesn't let slip the chuckle in his throat but whatever the raider sees on his face makes his shoulders might have caught a small quirk of his lips but it's gone when he faces the raider. The tension fades. Taking a step next to Flak, the raider nudges him up the stairs. Like the others who are awaiting access to Rivet City, they cross the bridge. Flak instantly keeps his face down. His head feels light without his hair. It's warm where the sunlight hits it. He sees the water far below.

At the entrance, the security guard makes them stop. She requests to look inside their suitcase, tapping the barrel of her rifle on it. In response, the raider growls at her; the touchy bastard even tugs the suitcase away from her, almost hugging it to his chest. The raider's not used to this. He's not used to being around this many people who 'speak fancy'. He's not used to all these layers of cloth. Flak knows. Ms Security raises an eyebrow at him. Clearing his throat, Flak turns to the raider, making him focus on Flak now.

"Buddy," he says, patting the raider's forearm. "We got nothing to hide, do we?" The raider takes a second before he slowly lets the suitcase go. He pushes the suitcase to Ms Security. She nods at the both of them, her eyes staying on the raider a second longer, and proceeds to untie the ropes. Flak makes an attempt to talk to her. "So -"

"Stay quiet," she interrupts him. Her mouth is pinched and her brows are dipped into a frown showing clear displeasure. She's young, barely out of her teens, her skin smooth and toned. But she carries the air of someone who's not afraid to use her rifle, to exert her authority. When the ropes are off, she opens the lid. She's greeted by the collection of their guns inside. The only way Flak knows she's surprised is by the way her grip tightens around her rifle.

"None of the guns are loaded," Flak assures her. Her eyes dart to him. "We're gun merchants."

"Is that your business in Rivet City?" she demands.

"Actually, we..." his voice trails off. The raider stares at him like something stinks in the air. In a lowered voice, Flak continues. "We want to talk to the Chief of Security." She lifts her chin and raises an eyebrow.

"Why?"

"I know about the disappearances." Ms Security's eyes widen. He's gotten her interest now.

"What do you know about it?"

"Let's just say I have information he'll be interested in." She purses her lips. Making quick orders for the guard to take over her shift, she tells them to follow her. They enter Rivet City.

Flak is almost startled by the sight of civilisation even though he has been here before. Bright and busy, Rivet City is a thriving place. There are conversations, arguments and discussions. They step down the stairs to the marketplace. It takes them closer to the hustle and bustle. It's a stark difference from the Wastes. He sees people bargaining and trading. He sees a life he's not a part of. He also sees the metal walls that surrounds everything. The Wastes are hidden behind it. Beside him, the raider is tense. This is more unfamiliar to him, of course. Flak tries to calm down enough for the both of them. And that's when he sees a familiar face.

_Jade. _He's smoking out of a pipe while he writes something into a book. His long hair sways as he shakes his head, laughing. Charming. It looks easy; his life looks easy and uncomplicated. Comfortable. He looks like he fits in here at Rivet City. But Flak knows who he is. Flak knows he smells like a slaver. Jade grins at the guard he's talking to. _Bear._ Flak recognises him too. Nicknamed 'Bear' because of his overall giant physique, his real name's Carley. Harmon Jurley's system is definitely in effect here. More brawn than brains, Bear is the muscle of this duo. He's the one who abducts. Jade is the one who plans and schemes. Keeping his face averted, Flak follows the guard. The raider catches up.

They are taken through a door that leads to a stairwell. Ms Security brings them to the top of stairwell where they see another door. As they enter, the guards turn their heads to look at them. He hears the way the raider hisses at his back. In front of him, Ms Security marches over to the desk where a broad-shouldered man sits. He must be the Chief.

"What is it, Lana?" the Chief says to her, a fond smile on his face. He's a handsome man, the Chief. His strong jawline is dusted with scruff. His eyes are bright but kind. He glances at the suitcase the raider is carrying.

"These men say they know something about the missing people." The smile disappears. The Chief shares a look with Lana, and turn to Flak and the raider. Under scrutiny, Flak forces himself to be still. The Chief closes the file in his hand and stands up.

"I'm Commander Danvers," he introduces himself with a loud, booming voice. "What do you know about the disappearances?" he asks, straight to the point. It's like Harmon Jurley all over again. Flak finds himself obligated to answer everything he asks, only this time the Chief doesn't eat human flesh.

"The missing people are in Paradise Falls."

"That's slaver country," the guard, Lana, says. "Are you saying they've been enslaved?" She's a fast one. Smart. Flak nods. She shakes her head, vigorous movements that make her blonde hair fly around her. "Impossible. Rivet City security is the best in the Wastes. We keep the trouble out." She looks at him like she's daring him to say otherwise. Flak tightens his new coat around himself.

"I don't doubt that," he tells her. "But for years, you've been harbouring meat packers -" Fuck. "_Slavers _on the ship." Lana frowns; she looks upset. Only the Chief stays calm.

"Go on," he encourages.

"They grade the me– they mark the people they consider suitable and take them. Collar them and communicate with the others outside the city to ensure smooth deliveries to Paradise Falls." Lana curses again.

"You know who they are," the Chief states. Flak nods. "You will share this information?" he asks but Flak knows that that isn't a question. It's an order.

"I will," he answers. "For a price." Somehow, this is all very familiar. He is bartering for human lives – only this time, the lives belong to two meat packers. That and... Flak glances at the raider and the suitcase that holds all that they both have.

"What is it that you want?" The Chief asks.

"Immunity," Flak answers. "For a few days, at least, before we..." Until this blows over. Because when word gets out, Paradise Falls and Harmon Jurley will hound him more relentlessly. They'll hunt him down. And if they know about the raider, they'll... "Immunity."

"That can be arranged," the Chief responds. "Only if whatever you claim is true."

"It is."

"How do you know all this? How sure can I be that you aren't... stirring shit up for the sake of it?" The Chief turns on them. "How did you obtain this information?"

Of course. Credibility is important. Flak takes a deep breath, unafraid of the truth but worried about the consequences. Staring right at the Chief, he confesses "I was a slaver." The effect is immediate. The guard near the door takes out his pistol, the motion setting everything off. The other guards reach for their weapons. Without hesitation, the raider pushes himself in front of Flak, raising the suitcase he's carrying like it's a weapon too.

"Back off, bleeder," he warns the room. "You don't wanna get fucked up." The guard takes aim. Flak grasps the raider's arm and yanks him back. The raider growls in protest.

"We're not here to fight," Flak reasons with him. The raider pries his arm free from Flak's grip.

"These fuckers ain't gonna listen." He glares at the room's inhabitants; the guards are already aiming at them. "That's what they do -"

"We're not here to fight," Flak repeats to the rest of the room.

"You have a suitcase full of guns." Lana points the rifle at them.

"They're all _empty, _Ms Security._" _Flak holds on to the raider again, desperate to make sure he stays here by his side. The touch on his shoulder makes the raider still. He looks over at Flak, eyes dark. "I was a slaver. He was a raider," Flak says as calmly as he can in the crosshairs of more than one rifle on him. The eyes that study him are fingers away from their triggers. The raider hisses something, hands wavering. "But that's in the past." The gravity of those words weigh down on him. "We can't go back." They can't, can they? This is _all _they have left. The both of them. Over the shoulder, the raider stares at him. Flak reads the understanding in them. The clarity. The raider puts the suitcase down.

"So, you're speaking the truth, then?" The Chief frowns at him.

"You deaf?" the raider answers, almost spitting out the words. "We can't go back." He curls his upper lip into a nasty expression. In spite of the blatant disrespect, the Chief nods. He gestures, a short wave downwards, and the guards lower their guns but don't put them away.

"What evidence can I find?" he asks.

"You'll be able to find a ledger or letters in their belongings. A receipt." Lana is about to protest but the Chief shakes his head at her. She closes her mouth but glares at them. The glare stays until Flak gives her two names. At that, she curses again, calling bullshit and saying that it can't possibly be Bear or Jade _because_.

"Follow me," the Chief commands, walking away. Flak and the raider obey. They go through a short hallway. At the end of it, they stop in front of a door. Upon opening it, the Chief directs Flak and the raider inside. It's a small squarish room that's almost bare. At the far wall, there is a desk. On the left, there is a couch. The Chief stays in the doorway. "I'll investigate your claim," he says. "For your sakes, I hope it's valid." With that, the door shuts behind them.


	16. Chapter 14

**Stray  
****Chapter 14****  
**

It's like that house again. This time, there are no deathclaws, no slavers after them. They're both just waiting here, like sitting baby naked molerats. Waiting for a bunch of Rivet City security guards to return with a verdict.

Not only does the raider look uncomfortable with the idea, he's uncomfortable with everything else too. Flak understands that the raider loves the sun and the outdoors. This place looks like it's constricting him. Flak finds himself wanting to promise the raider that they'll be out there again soon. When this is over, they'll look down into the water from the bridge. When this is over, they'll visit the flight deck upstairs and... do whatever.

It's just that he doesn't know what will happen out there. He doesn't know what honeyed words Jade will tell the Chief to convince him. He doesn't know what the Chief will find. He doesn't know if the next time the door opens, the Chief will have a gun trained on them. He doesn't know what will happen. The raider snorts and Flak sits up from the couch. He barely manages to get past "Buddy -"

"They ain't gonna get us," the raider cuts him off. "Won't let them get us." And that... that is a promise, isn't it? The raider pulls at his shirt's collar, and Flak thinks about his throat. Thinks about the absence of that spiked shoulder pad, and metal ring he wore around his neck. He thinks about making damn sure that no one collars either of them.

"Okay, buddy." They've done this before, haven't they? They've dodged deathclaws and slavers and raiders and yao guais and bloatflies and the whole fucking Wastes. "Okay." He watches as the raider scrubs his face. It's as if that announcement has taken all the energy out of him. The raider slumps next to Flak on the couch. He opens the suitcase to pick out his book. He also takes out the bottle of scotch and opens it. He drinks, wrapping his lips around the bottle's neck. Without saying anything, he hands the bottle to Flak. Flak takes a drink as well.

Flak watches the raider tracing words on the page, his fingertips looping around the black lines. "Hey," Flak starts and the raider grunts. "Want to learn how to read?" he asks, tasting scotch on his lips. The raider lifts his eyes from the page. There is a crease between his brows.

"Raiders... don't read," the raider says. He doesn't say anything else. And he doesn't say 'No'. And Flak is very aware that he's just made a promise too. They've settled into this silence when the door opens. Chief Danvers lets the door bang against the wall when he enters. There is a pistol in his hand. Flak reaches for his pistol._ Fully loaded._ The door hasn't even sprung back before the Chief opens his mouth.

"You were right." That statement takes all the breath out of Flak.

"Chief?" he calls. He lowers his hand. The Chief has a triumphant grin on his face. But it does nothing to mask the trickle of blood on his left temple. "Been trying to figure it out forever. Never thought... damn, boys," he exhales. His eyes crinkle at the corners. "You don't know how long we've tried to find the scum. Every few weeks, one or two Rivetians will disappear. It's always the new ones. And I never..."

"So, you got 'em?" the raider asks, breaking his vow to not speak on the ship yet again.

"Yes. Got them and thrown them off the ship." The Chief composes himself. "You asked for immunity. You have it. Rivet City owes you." Well, that's one statement Flak's never expected to hear in his lifetime. He stands up. That's it. Flak's done what he wanted to do. He's fought back. Something in him feels free. And yet... "I've spoken to the Council and they agreed that you should be compensated for your troubles," the Chief starts again. Looking at the both of them, he smooths out his uniform. "Lana says you're gun merchants?" There is some disbelief in his tone. Flak cringes. Rubbing his chin, the Chief rests his gaze on Flak, then the raider. "We got an empty shop in the marketplace now. You boys can clean it up. Start it up again."

"What? You cuttin' us a deal?" the raider blurts out like he's challenging the boss. "A reward?"

"A home, actually, if you want it." The Chief rubs at his cheek as the guard outside the door looks on. "Like I said, Rivet City owes you." He shrugs. "And you boys look lost."

Lost? Flak glances at his raider companion. It feels like they've been lost all their lives.

"What do you say, Mr..." the Chief gestures for a name.

"Flak," he answers turning back to the Chief.

"And..." When the Chief prompts the raider for a name, Flak steps in.

"My buddy doesn't have a na-"

"The name's Shrapnel," the raider interrupts. Flak turns to the raider. He hasn't moved from his seat on the couch. On his lap, the book is open to the page where there is a photo of a piece of flak. He stares back at Flak. There might have been a smile there but it's hidden in shadow.

"So, what's it going to be, Flak and Shrapnel?" the Chief asks them. Flak stares at the raider – _Shrapnel_, willing him to answer because this will be different, this will be new for the raider. The four walls and ceiling, the people – this is more than immunity for Flak. And this... this is new for him too.

"What do you think, buddy?" he asks. Shrapnel doesn't even look at the four walls and ceiling. He just stares back at Flak.

"Yeah. We're stayin'."

**end. **


End file.
